Fallen flowers yearn for you

 　　A wisp of wind rises, shaking down the branches laden with longing. You stand beneath the tree, your eyes radiant with a gentle spring breeze. And so, a ray of light falls, and you turn to ash with it.

　　--- Prologue

　　You are the true words in the Buddhist scriptures as the prayer wheel turns; you are the only true love in Loulan City; you are the man with the folding fan beneath the tree amidst falling blossoms when the wind rises; you are the haunting figure I cannot escape in my dreams, and also a splash of red in that picturesque landscape.

　　I remember our first meeting, you were still dressed in white, your every move graceful and elegant, brimming with talent. The folding fan accentuated your refined and elegant demeanor, but what truly captivated me was your smile, as gentle as a spring breeze.

　　Yes, when you smile, spring arrives, the snow melts, and the flowers bloom.

　　After that, I stayed by your side.

　　You said, "What is the meaning of life? Better to plant ten miles of peach trees, guarding the falling blossoms and waiting for my beloved." At that time, you wrote, "A man who plants trees for ten years, spends the rest of his life with the falling blossoms."

　　You said, time is so cruel, leaving no trace of remembrance for the pitiful. Back then, you stood by the river, the sunset reddening the water, reflecting your image, though it was faint.

　　You also said, life is both long and short, and in the end, all that's missing is one person. Back then, under the moon, your long, ink-black hair cascaded over your shoulders, leaning against a pavilion pillar, gazing at the bright moon, which shone on your furrowed brow. Back

　　then, you were thirty. But who else, like you, disregards the world, wandering aimlessly through life's pleasures?

　　Who marvels at the sight of fallen petals scattered across the land?

　　Who suddenly turns back, only to find no trace of your serene figure?

　　Who murmurs in response, but hears no more of your gentle voice?

　　Who longs to return to their dreams, to see your radiant self, only to find you have already departed

　　…

　　Who are you? Why do you weep for the fallen petals? Why would you spend your entire life accompanying fallen petals? And why do you yearn for the bright moon?

　　Who I am is unimportant; what matters is that I met her.

　　She said I was her god, and her demon, her heartbeat, and her final demise.

　　She was simply herself, the thought that lingers in my heart for life.